Light houses were calling her home off the exit past oblivion and before the universal sign of unexpected contentment. She was a summer day in December, with fireworks in her eyes and a smooth serendipity on her lips. Little market places would open when she passed them on the street, with eyes that begged for her to beg back, but she kept her nose pointed toward the yellow house on the left, and she made up stories about the world inside her nightmares in an attempt to create someone more beautiful than she let herself forget she had become. The blue door and the blue shades and the blue awnings were all closed in the afternoon because she broke her promise never to hope again. Fate was swinging underneath the willow tree and blowing bubbles out of dishwasher soap and red wine. She watched as Fate licked her lips and pointed to the cliffs far behind. The girl with the striped sweater, who cut her hair to forget what people wanted, who laughed with her mouth open and her eyes shut, who kissed with reverence and wondered what tomorrow could do to top today, turned. Destiny was standing behind her, with skin like the moon and eyes like safety. Destiny, on the other hand, laughed with her eyes open and her mouth closed. Destiny looked at her the way that a daydream would look at a night dream, the way that contemplation looks at a wayward thought, the way that a lover would look at the unloved. They saw each other once upon a time.

It was almost too much.